


rex.

by rxtrogression



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, Gen, M/M, not newtmas-centric, see author's notes - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:06:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxtrogression/pseuds/rxtrogression
Summary: And this,he thinks, glancing down.This is what I call a downhill spiral.





	1. rex.

**Author's Note:**

> tw: eating disorder, attempted suicide. discretion is advised.

He’s flying.

Then he’s not.

[icarus by any other name would fall just as far. - [j.p](http://pencap.tumblr.com/)]

-

The indicator wavers between 145 and 146 pounds.

_Is this normal?_

Something small tells him it’s a smidge too much. A faint voice, almost a whisper, belittles him, mocks him.

(Whispers sweet nothings in his ears when he isolates himself further from the rest of the Glade.)

He decides to forget it. After all, as a Runner, he exercises enough for two people, and he’s pretty sure he’s healthy. Average, at least.

The small voice fades, and Newt is left musing alone once more.

He wonders how much Minho weighs. The boy is built like an adonis, with muscles that are beautifully defined and a body that screams _powerful._ Frowning, Newt thinks about the soft layer of fat over his stomach. His abdominal muscles barely show, and he wouldn’t define himself as lean. He’s lost in his stupor when Frypan taps him lightly on the shoulder.

“Hey man, is that the scale we requested?”

Newt starts in place, quickly stepping off and whipping around, jaw gaping. “Oh. I was just, uh, seeing what this was.” The lie is painfully obvious, even to Newt’s ears, and the other boy eyes him warily. Fixes him with an odd stare.

“Sure,” he reaches around Newt and bends down to pick the scale up. Traitorous eyes closely examine how Fry’s body folds, finding a line of pudge against the fabric of his pants that disappears as soon as the cook stands straight. “This’ll get Winston and his shuckin’ Slicers to shut up,” he smiles at Newt. “They were getting annoying, huh?”

When the blond doesn’t respond, Fry pats him on the shoulder, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”

Newt’s head is elsewhere, mind running amok with odd thoughts, like how Fry had to reach so far around Newt’s body. Was he really that big?

_No, of course not. Don’t be silly._

The voice has made its home amidst the line of questioning thoughts.

-

Gally has always struck Newt as a perfectionist. Maybe it’s his craving for order. Maybe it’s his commanding presence. Whatever it is, Newt is _burning_. Partly due to the drink he has a vicelike grip on, knuckles a ghostly white in the firelight, but mostly because of jealousy. Even though Newt ranks higher (never explicitly stated, of course— unity and all that— but he knows. Oh, he knows), Gally seems to carry a certain authority wherever he goes. Control.

And, by whatever deity exists in their prison, Newt _wants_ that. Wants control.

[much, much later, when Thomas squirms restlessly beneath him, head thrown back in a soundless moan and body wracking with waves of pleasure, Newt thinks he’s tasted it, completely and utterly.]

Motivated, he pushes himself a little harder during sparring matches. Gives a little extra when helping out around the glade. Runs as fast as his legs can take him in the Maze.

In the privacy of his hammock, he stretches out as much as he can and runs a hand down his torso.

He doesn’t dare sit up.

(He doesn’t know how he would react if he were to find his stomach bulging out slightly.)

So he looks up, closes his eyes, and counts his ribs until he falls asleep.

-

“You haven’t touched your food, Newt.”

Two months have passed. Two months, two hopelessly confused boys, and weeks upon weeks of _starving._ Newt only eats enough to keep himself running, though with his predicament, continuing as a Runner doesn’t seem so feasible.

(He won’t lie and say the lack of nutrition hasn’t taken its toll. His soft hair has become thin and brittle, the bags under his eyes more pronounced, and exhaustion is evident in every pore of his body.)

“I have,” he protests, voice weak as he gestures to his mostly-full plate. “See?” Minho’s frown is telling.

Frypan looks genuinely hurt. “You don’t like it?” Newt's defence crumbles slightly. He may be trying to eat less, but he’s not _heartless._

“No, no, it tastes great, Fry.” It's a quietly desperate plea to leave him alone.

The other boy doesn’t look convinced.

“You always make great stuff.” Newt offers, smiling feebly.

The silence stretches out, taking hold of the blond's body and twisting his features into clear guilt.

Under the weight of both Alby and Minho’s stares, Newt caves. He scarfs down his meal like a dying man.

Asks for seconds.

Eats until his stomach feels like bursting.

Alby and Minho have stopped their staring, and have resorted to a silent conversation via facial expressions.

Newt doesn’t know which guilt it is that makes him jam a finger down his throat. Guilt from letting his friends down? Or guilt from eating so much? Regardless, the contents of his stomach are now in the ground, buried under soil and undergrowth. He hopes the smell isn’t too strong.

__-_ _

It’s been a week since he binged, and nobody has mentioned anything about vomit in the woods. Minho has forced him to stay in his bunk and rest more, since he is, quote: “outta [his] shucking mind for thinking [he’s] anywhere _near_ healthy enough to run.”

Which, in Newt’s opinion, is ridiculous. He hasn’t gained weight, he doesn’t think, and there’s no way he could have gotten too large to run. He can run long distance.

He just hasn’t done it in a while.

So he jogs to the Blood House area before the sun rises and sneaks into the back room, huffing all the way. There’s only just enough light to make out the numbers spinning round, and Newt’s heart drops as the sun continues to rise.

 _This,_ he thinks, glancing down. _This is what I call a downhill spiral._

The numbers fluctuate slightly before settling, and the indicator points to a solid 129.

It’s no wonder Minho left him behind.

Still, the voice from before speaks in his mind, loud and resonant.

_You’re too fat to run. You’ll slow down the other runners._

_You’re not in control yet._

-

Newt is.

-

…124 pounds when he ventures out into the Maze again, a month after he resolves to do better. His mind is a bizarre, endless whirl, but running helps. It always has. He doesn’t know why the world suddenly tilts on its side, or why he can’t see anymore.

It’s only when his head is slamming against the walls of section 4 that a clear thought surfaces, drowned out by Minho’s screaming.

-

…118 pounds after a few more weeks. Or months. He doesn’t know. Time is a weird concept and requires more brainpower than he is willing to use. It’s harder to be active when he’s been demoted to the garden, so he resorts to avoiding his friends. The other Gladers don’t give a damn about him. Probably.

Frypan’s helpless gaze stirs something awful in Newt’s conscience. He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. He’s binged a few more times, when the hunger gets too strong and the exhaustion kicks in.

-

…116 pounds and the Glade is absolutely _freezing._ Has it always been this cold?

-

…111 pounds when he has an epiphany. The ivy on the walls of the Maze. The height. An.. end? The stars are blown away by the wind.

-

…102 pounds when his friends trap him.

And he’s heaving with dry sobs.

And Minho is screaming again.

And he’s being enveloped in the embrace of several boys.

_You’re a failure. A big, fat failure._

He doesn’t want to do this anymore.

The Glade is an awful place.

-

Winston hides the scale.

-

Newt finds it by the chickens.

-

He puts it back after he’s done, for Winston’s peace of mind.

(He maintained.)

-

...96 pounds when he sneaks out into the Maze, hopefully for the last time.

-

_pain pain pain PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN LEG PAIN HELP MEHELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP ME HELP M_

-

He’s flying.

Then he’s not.

-

His leg is _shattering._

-

Newt is. He just _Is._ There’s no real way to describe it. He co-exists in his current plane of reality and a flitting dream. Tidbits surface in his hazy state.

Hazel eyes dotted with constellations. A hand running through his hair. A gorgeous smile. He lets out a breath, lips mouthing the name of the boy he loves dearly.

“Alby. Alby, he’s finally awake.”

“Newt..?"

-

His leg feels weird, but he’s alive.

He’s alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit fic for shit times lmaoo
> 
> more of a vent fic tbh? i needed to remind myself of the repercussions of relapse. if you're struggling with an eating disorder, know that it gets better. you'll be okay. feel free to hit me up on [tumblr](http://rxtrogression.tumblr.com/) if you ever wanna talk :)
> 
> i am eating a muffin and im PROUD, fuck calorie counting


	2. notes/methods

 rex - latin for king. short nickname for anorexia in males.

 

this was originally going to be called oedipus rex, as a sort of pun for the ideas touched upon. i figured it wouldn’t be very obvious at a surface level, so i just shortened it to rex.

 

briefly, though, since i think this deserves a bit of clarification:  _oedipus rex_  was written by sophocles and performed in 429 bc. the first in a trilogy of plays,  _oedipus_  set the scene in an alternate ancient thebes, one where athenian democracy was not present (if _antigone_ is anything to go by, hahaha). as i'm sure the large majority of readers know, the play is about a man who, bound by fate, kills his father and marries his mother. sophocles' theban plays are a popular example of tragedy, and this fic was largely inspired by themes underlying ancient greek tragic plays. most notably, that drama allows for the exploration of controversy. the what-ifs. in the case of  _oedipus_ , put simply: what if a guy killed his dad and had four kids with his mom? for me: what if newt struggled with anorexia, not depression? 

 

 _oedipus rex_  has a predominant theme of blindness/short-sightedness. a sort of helplessness, if you will. he physically fucks up his eyes in the play, yeah, but his inability to evaluate his next steps in a calm/logical manner is a fatal flaw (read: he had zero (0) chill and couldn't put his ego down for one goddamn second) and ultimately leads to his downfall. aristotle's interpretation of tragedy reflects  _oedipus rex_  well (“a tragedy is the imitation of an action that is serious and also, as having magnitude, complete in itself; in appropriate and pleasurable language;... in a dramatic rather than narrative form; with incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish a catharsis of these emotions”*), and it's here where i deviate slightly. newt's fatal flaw was not a metaphysical trait or personality deficit, per se, but i believe he was inherently flawed. his genetics damned him to non-immunity from the flare, much like the oracle in  _oedipus_. his caring nature led to a string of decisions that, in turn, brought death to his doorstep. it's why page 250 is so heartbreaking; dashner, in creating a character like newt's, opened the maze runner trilogy to what i like to call "relatability." in more literary terms, newt was dashner's main key to pathos. you don't feel for thomas, our actual protagonist. thomas is, in my humble opinion, too much of a mary sue in the books. does he have flaws? yes. but he's the  _perfectly_  flawed hero of the series. his caring about friends is meant to come across as a potential downfall, much like percy jackson in rick riordan's series, but the only result is a slightly annoyed audience stuck with the same goddamn trope in every YA novel. katniss, tris, clary, you name any popular teen series, the trope is there.

 

but maybe that's just me. you might have discovered something profound in thomas as a protagonist, and if so, i'd love to hear your thoughts.  _the maze runner_  was an enjoyable experience as an ten year-old, but picking it up years later? i was choked with disappointment. 

 

bringing it back to _oedipus_ and the choice of title. you can draw a fuckton of similarities between main characters of tragedies, which is why i thought the title might be fun. if i didn't succeed in tragedy, that's okay. i'm not claiming to be shakespeare or some other famous playwright, but i hope it's clear that i, too, drew inspiration from aristotle's interpretation of tragedy.

 

wow, okay, that was longer than i meant it to be. some other things before this ends:

 

  * it's not that i particularly like making wholesome characters suffer more than they have, but it's not like i have anything better to do.



(well, i do, technically. senior year is a busy wreck, yet here i am.)

  * the icarus thing: i mean, if you read the above word vomit, i think you can deduce the existence of my whole ancient greek,, thing.
  * i also contemplated removing the irrelevant newtmas parts, but i’m a slut for injecting unnecessary tidbits, i guess.
  * the style of writing changes throughout. this was a conscious choice, but if you like, you can read it as: author got lazy lmaooo



okay, no, that’s not really it. i didn’t know how to end the story. i thought the shorter sentences might drive the whole “newt is becoming v weak” point home, so maybe that’s where i was going? but also, it kind of mirrors my personal journey. i haven’t fully recovered from ednos, so my story hasn’t ended. in all honesty, i don’t think it ever does. there’s only getting better with time.

those last two bullets bring me to another point of interest: this fic is rather episodic. why? 

well, you could say that i did it for the "aesthetic."

but mostly, i think episodic, as opposed to completely linear, storytelling is a powerful tool. it keep the audience on edge. what's next? another newtmas moment? more numbers? i originally wrote it in past tense, but honestly, it just seemed odd. present tense seemed to emphasize the constancy of newt's ever-degrading thoughts, and i guess that makes it less of a stylistic choice and more of a thematic one. i don't know, i'm rambling at this point tbh. think death of a salesman, and you've got newt. i have a theory that miller was inspired by shakespearian tragedies, so it's neat to try and portray that sort of "ancient tragic character in a modern setting" thing in a fanfiction. it's a shame that my storytelling abilities aren't very developed, or else these notes wouldn't be so long, oops.

 

  * if you clicked here looking for closure/more, you won’t find it. what happens next is up to you. does newt recover? is he still struggling when thomas arrives?
  * this is, quite possibly, the most self-indulgent thing i’ve ever written. me? pushing my own problems onto fictional characters and trying to draw solutions from my own imagination????? no never



anyways, that’s it for now. i might add something later if i remember.

 

i hope to get back to writing more soon!

 

peace.

\- avery

 

*if you want this quote explained, feel free to hmu, as it's not very intuitive. i could literally go on for days about aristotle and tragedy, so don't be afraid!

 


End file.
